The woman’s face was white with vexation and anger.
“You fool!” she cried. “Is all to go wrong at the last minute? There are fifty pounds here they are in this paper—would you refuse them?”
“It’s a cowardly business. I won’t do it.”
“Cowardly? You are giving the man two stone, and he can beat any amateur in England.”
The young pugilist felt relieved. After all, if he could fairly earn that fifty pounds, a good deal depended upon his winning it. If he could only be sure that this was a worthy and willing antagonist!
“How do you know he is so good?” he asked.
“I ought to know. I am his wife.”
As she spoke she turned, and was gone like a flash among the bushes. The man was quite close now, and Tom Spring’s scruples weakened as he looked at him. He was a powerful, broad-chested fellow, about thirty, with a heavy, brutal face, great thatched eyebrows, and a hard-set mouth. He could not be less than fifteen stone in weight, and he carried himself like a trained athlete. As he swung along he suddenly caught a glimpse of Spring among the trees, and he at once quickened his pace and sprang over the stile which separated them.
“Halloa!” said he, halting a few yards from him, and staring him up and down. “Who the devil are you, and where the devil did you come from, and what the devil are you doing on my property?”
His manner was even more offensive than his words. It brought a flush of anger to Spring’s cheeks.